


Words Can Never Hurt Me

by Cobalt_Mystic (Heavenly_Bodies)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Jossverse
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:26:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heavenly_Bodies/pseuds/Cobalt_Mystic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wee look at some of Spike's insecurities left over from his mortal days, what he expects and what he finds instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words Can Never Hurt Me

**Author's Note:**

> The opening text is from "Fool for Love"- It should not need to be said, but just in case, it is NOT mine, it belongs to those lovely ppl who actually get/got paid for writing our boys.
> 
> This is not meant to be good writing, this is meant to be a therapeutic release to keep Mys from hunting down and bitch-slapping arrogant sots who think they are gods’ gift to fanfic!
> 
> Originally posted on LJ, on Mar. 14th, 2009

*********

> “And that's actually one of his better compositions.”
> 
> “Have you heard, they call him ‘William the Bloody’ because of his bloody awful poetry.”
> 
> “It suits him. I'd rather have a railroad spike through my head than listen to that awful stuff…”

Spike growled remembering the words that had stung him so deeply, so long ago- another life. A hundred years later and the pain could still sneak up on him like a cobra in tall grass, striking a death blow when he least expected it.

Those hate-filled words, they symbolized something to him. Something he resented. Him.

Or at least the fop of a man he had been. It was the same thing when he got down to it, same body, same mind, and these days same soul. And it was that soul that screamed at him, screamed for the feel of pen brushing paper, for the release he had denied himself for decades. It screamed at him to create. It screamed that it didn’t matter, that the beauty was in the act. That even if he was the only one who could see the pictures he painted, it was still a resplendent thing.

Finally, he wrote. Wrote about the one thing that inspired him, the thing that had always been his downfall in every possible way, the thing that defined and created him as much as his mother, his Dark Princess, or his bastard Grandsire had. He wrote about love, blinding smiles, strength that no one understood or acknowledged, and the warmth and acceptance of a chocolate-coffee boy so reminiscent of a sandy-haired Victorian poet he had once been.

His words had never been meant for another’s eyes, they had been his- they were him, bare and open. When _he_ discovered them, Spike thought his world was crashing. The sting and pain of a hundred years prepared to overwhelm him- one word, one breath, one syllable or sound and “William” would be crushed, gone, no longer even a memory of his past, but another casualty erased from the world with no one the wiser.

Calloused fingers traced the lines on the paper. Dark eyes full of awe and wonder followed the words to their end. A word, a word he knew wasn’t worthy of describing his emotion, breathed passed his lips. “Beautiful.”


End file.
